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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26067946">empty</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/connections/pseuds/connections'>connections</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Death Note (Anime &amp; Manga)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, light tries to fill the void L‘s death has left with sex, namikawa doesn‘t actually care, takes place after the yotsuba arc, that‘s the whole plot, this fic is slightly depressing and really pretentious</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:15:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,472</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26067946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/connections/pseuds/connections</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What he gets in return is something inside him. He feels like he’s being cracked open, raw and ugly, filled up with all the lies they share. It’s better than nothing, and better than being empty, and better than being an empty void.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Forgetting.</i>
</p><p>L dies. He doesn’t leave anything behind. He doesn’t leave anything behind, and Light can’t stand it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Namikawa Reiji/Yagami Light</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>empty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is what my recent rewatch of death note has spiraled into. i've told myself that the next thing i‘m writing is totally not smut, but here i am ..... guess i kind of found my niche with this no-strings-attached-we-just-use-each-other-to-cope-sex agenda i really enjoy throwing at any ship i find out there.</p><p>anyways, here‘s 3.5k of light being a whore! have fun!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He doesn‘t bother with going for a drink together beforehand. The evening has grown old already, the city lights are particularly indecisive tonight, and Light doesn‘t want to pretend. No more than he has to (than he always does), that is. Masks are uncomfortable. He has come to love the tightness crawling beneath his skin; steady and dependable.</p><p> </p><p>There was only an address, a three-digit room number, and a time.</p><p> </p><p>The sheets beneath him are cool and silky and embrace him like water—he buries his fingers in them, worries them one way or the other, trying to silence the hungry need inside him to do <em>something</em>. He isn‘t one to wait. That‘s a task for people not as greedy as him.</p><p> </p><p>So he spends the time convincing himself that he isn’t nervous. He’s in control, and he has a problem to solve, and he’s doing rational things. The concept of sex has never sounded appealing to him, the theory of it just as tasteless of an aspect of human relationships as all the others are (all the others he doesn’t need, doesn’t want), but apparently, humans have sex for a reason, which is forgetting about themselves. Losing, it seems, but in a less-than-terrible way.</p><p> </p><p>Light wants to have a taste.</p><p> </p><p>If sex can make you forget about yourself, and the emptiness is a part of you, then maybe it’ll go away because you can’t see it anymore. Or it’ll vanish. Be filled, maybe.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
:::</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Light hates not being prepared. He hates seeing one half of something and missing the other—it isn’t even half of it most of the time (who is he to allow himself an error margin that isn‘t vanishingly small, that isn‘t nonexistent?), but that doesn‘t matter. This time, it is. He was prepared for the sweet sting of victory, for the rich, burning honey that seeps into the seams of his skin and renders it hard to keep himself together. Breathing is a hardship just as much as it’s expendable, then.</p><p><br/>
This is something he knows, not to this degree of ravenousness, but well enough.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to tell himself that he doesn’t know the other half, the one he was unprepared for, the one that creates a contrast so harsh it’s blinding. The void is familiar, though, and too obvious, too present—it mocks him, its laugh high-pitched and dark and impossible. It makes him feel stupid, and he hates feeling stupid because he knows he isn’t, which means he was sloppy, which means he’s losing control, which is something he hates, too, even more so.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Something is wrong. He should’ve seen it coming.</p><p> </p><p>But victory is viscous, and it’s blinding, so it certainly can’t be his fault. He didn’t see that his voice breaking wasn’t the beautiful merit of deceit that‘s become near-visceral, but an act of betrayal by his own body.</p><p> </p><p>The slim figure in his arms was too heavy.</p><p> </p><p>The problem, Light ponders, is that victory and rage share the same colour, and that there are no different shades anymore when they blend into each other. They create something new, something better, that doesn’t have to explain itself. It doesn’t help. (Who is he to allow himself to need help, anyway?)</p><p> </p><p>So he didn’t understand, right then. He doesn’t, now, but it feels different. The axis of his world has been tilted ever since.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Why did you dare me? Why did you have to ask me to come out and play? Why did you make me kill you, L?</em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>These aren’t even questions,</em> the voice in his head answers. It‘s tinted blue, and the blue is fading.</p><p> </p><p>They aren‘t. And Light has won, so he was diligent enough to win, so it doesn’t make sense that he’s missed the other half that‘s clear as day now and so huge, so all-consuming it isn‘t something one could miss.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe, the emptiness has become too natural, a part of him—the part of him that doesn‘t care, which is why the rest of him believes and wants and cares so much (frantic, static, white-hot). It doesn‘t faze him anymore.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He had expected the void that L has left to taste different. Person-shaped, slippery and cold, something with outlines. Something touchable.</p><p> </p><p>It‘s the same dry, raw hollowness he‘s known for most of his life: because whatever meaning is given to him is taken away again easily. This has become a part of him, too, so if there‘s no one to take, he takes himself; he clings onto it and cuts off both his hands.</p><p> </p><p>So that‘s what‘s different. It doesn‘t usually hurt, but this time, it did.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>:::</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Light realizes that he‘s disappointed, too. It‘s like he‘s expected more from existing, more of a distinct <em>something</em> and less of the bland, nagging, ever-present nothing there is. The disappointment catches a spark and sets his mind on fire, and he knows that his rage is childish, but when the restlessness grows too strong, he convinces himself he‘s allowed to feel that way. This world has no right to tell him, the winner ready to take it all, that he‘s lost anyway—it was an act of impulse, stubborn and spiteful and wrong in the moment he had finished dialing the number, when he called Namikawa Reiji.</p><p><br/>
It‘s not fair of him, really, but fairness is bland and unnecessary as well.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he remembers long dark hair and sharp features and eyes that aren‘t as dead as everyone else‘s. Light knows all of this through a gritty television screen. There‘s so much to learn there, still, and not nearly enough time. Maybe just enough because he‘s the one to decide.</p><p> </p><p>It‘s worth a try.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>:::</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He’s sat up and smoothed down the covers when the door opens. Namikawa is close-to-crushingly present, his clothes are flowing and expensive—his lips, curved up into a sardonic smile, look like they’d taste of red wine. He stands and cocks his head and waits. The door closes behind him.</p><p> </p><p>Light‘s voice is airy, his words playful and easy. He is excited, now, burning with the possibilities unfolding before him.</p><p> </p><p>„So you‘ve come.“</p><p> </p><p>It‘s an obvious statement, but Namikawa isn‘t bothered by it. They‘ve begun to recite a play, knowing each other‘s lines by heart with the tension lying elsewhere. Wars are won by communicating through intonation only.</p><p> </p><p>„I didn‘t have much of a choice.“</p><p> </p><p>„You‘ve had all the choice you could have wished for.“</p><p> </p><p>„Why am I here, then?“</p><p> </p><p>Light closes his eyes, braces his hands behind him on the bed, and lets his head drop back with a small sigh. He knows that the dim light of the hotel room pools beneath his chin. He can feel it on his throat.</p><p> </p><p>Namikawa shifts his weight from one foot to the other. „No. Why me?“</p><p> </p><p>„You‘re as good as anyone else.“</p><p> </p><p>They both know this isn‘t true. Neither of them feels the need to elaborate.</p><p> </p><p>Light tips his head back forward. His eyes are gleaming rogue, lips parted, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, pale skin seeping into the neckline. It‘s a subtext created to be read twice, to be cherished on its own. It‘s inviting. <em>I dare you to touch me without being poisoned. I am contagious, and you know that.</em></p><p> </p><p>The air between them is lukewarm and static.</p><p> </p><p>„I want you to fuck me. Show me what it‘s like.“ He knows exactly how to operate this voice—the words come out low, flow like honey sweet and alluring. Light spreads his legs.</p><p> </p><p>If Namikawa is surprised, he hides it well. The smug grin doesn‘t once leave his lips; it broadens and shows teeth as he steps closer and looks down at Light, brings a hand down to his cheek and pushes a stray strand away, the touch cold and lingering.</p><p> </p><p>„Is that so?“</p><p> </p><p>Light is only able to tolerate his ridiculous confidence because he knows it‘s ridiculous—because he‘s the one to decide.</p><p> </p><p>They stare at each other for a long moment. It‘s a declaration of war.</p><p> </p><p>When Namikawa finally bends down, the press of his lips against Light‘s is tentative and slow. He‘s asking (for consent, for <em>more</em>, for something else entirely)—Light hates how he dares to question his calculations, hates that the space between them is still vast and lifeless, so he grasps Namikawa‘s tie and pulls. They crash like city lights reflected in rainwater. <em>Devour me, </em>all of it screams, <em>devour me like I‘m devouring the small part of you that‘s actually worth something.<br/>
<br/>
</em></p><p>It‘s a silent order (a plea more than anything else) for Namikawa to prove himself, and the other man seems to notice. It would‘ve been difficult not to with all the urgency that‘s clear as day in the half-dark.</p><p> </p><p>Between teeth and tongues and all the mercy neither of them has, Namikawa doesn‘t taste like wine, but still like alcohol, bittersweet and sharp.</p><p> </p><p>„You should take me out for a drink one day“, Light murmurs. It‘s not going to happen. The <em>one day</em> part of it isn‘t going to happen.</p><p> </p><p>Namikawa hums into the kiss and licks deeper into Light‘s mouth, drawing a quiet whimper out of him. Light is surprised that this feels pleasant—it‘s far from ecstatic, still bland and flat because it’s such an essentially human thing, but he thinks he can learn to like it. He lets his body go pliant against Namikawa’s touch, lets himself be eased onto the bed, and violently kisses back.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <br/>
<br/>
</span></p><p>When the relentless smile wanders down to nibble at his jaw, trace the line of his neck, when nimble fingers unbutton his shirt further, Light chases the newness of it all. It‘s a first. He hates himself for giving it away—hates being a slave to his body and a man that knows how to play—but that’s what he’s signed up for, so he’ll take it. Light clenches his teeth.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Namikawa places a hand on his bare chest and laughs at the shiver that awaits him, dry and triumphant. „Is that so?“, he repeats and presses a thumb to Light‘s left nipple and Light gasps. He closes his eyes.</p><p><br/>
„Whenever you tell me to stop“, Namikawa breathes.</p><p> </p><p>He won‘t. There‘s no reason to stop, and the reason to go on is that Light isn‘t bored right now, that he feels awake in an achingly pleasant way, the thing grounding him Namikawa’s icy fingertips on his skin. He‘s not bored anymore, and the numbness slowly slips way.</p><p> </p><p>He’s forgetting.</p><p> </p><p>„More“, he whispers, voice husky and demanding. He isn’t desparate. Yagami Light isn’t the kind of person to be desperate, and they both know this, but Namikawa is exhausting it. He will see where this gets him, Light thinks.</p><p> </p><p>Namikawa‘s smirk is understanding and dirty, and his eyes are dark with lust he doesn‘t let his hands express just now. They‘re agonizingly steady as they take and own inch after inch of skin (borrow, they‘re borrowing it, Light reminds himself, a dead person can‘t <em>have</em> things), but it does feel good. Being touched. It‘s like he‘s been forgetting about something all that time—that this mind that needs to be kept busy wears a body, and that other people can do something good to it.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not like he’d need this. He’s looking for something else.</p><p> </p><p>Namikawa’s hands find his belt and unbuckle it and it renders his gaze predatory. He‘s unleashed this, Light realizes, in the moment he said <em>fuck me </em>and opened a realm of possibilities, of promises, that lured Namikawa in like a shark smelling blood in clear water. He wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for the danger hiding beneath the edge of the other man’s smile. He wouldn’t have done it if he weren’t convinced that it’s his own danger that’ll win in the end.</p><p> </p><p>So he did.</p><p> </p><p>They’re burning down everything right now, and the sharp moans tumbling from his lips are fueling the fire, voice breathy-hot, when Namikawa‘s mouth is enveloping him, when it is Light himself filling something which means he isn‘t all empty, all void, and emptiness can‘t feel anyways; not like he feels teeth teasing him, and the harsh air on slick skin when they withdraw. Black hair in his fist.</p><p> </p><p>They make quick work of both their clothes, and the room‘s cool air doesn‘t matter anymore, and Light allows himself to stare for a blank moment. He stares and looks away and silently decides that he‘s made a good choice indeed, and Namikawa never stops grinning. <em>Do you like what you see?,</em> the curve of his lips asks, and it‘s a rhetorical question, and <em>I know you do, they all do, I know that.</em></p><p> </p><p>He puts his hair up into a ponytail, hands lingering just a tad too long, neck bared. Light sighs.</p><p> </p><p>„Top drawer“, he says. He gets on the bed again and closes his eyes and hears how the drawer is opened and closed, how the sound is eager. Poorly contained at the edges.</p><p> </p><p>Namikawa settles down before him, dips into the blue sea of the sheets. The light bounces and flows and stills like a wave. Light knows that the other man could talk him through this, but where’s the fun in talking? They’re reciting a play. A script doesn’t account for eventualities, usually, so they’re improvising through touch alone, they’re listening, they’re learning. It’s always about learning, Light thinks, about what’s new, about what adds to existence.</p><p> </p><p>He’s focusing on that when Namikawa presses a finger to his entrance, cold and slick. The sensation is different when it’s someone else, he realizes, he feels, he feels, and the finger is pressing into him and he shudders, exhaling. It’s interesting, more pleasant than weird, the weirdness of it metallic on his tongue. Namikawa watches him closely, making eye contact before adding a second digit; a third right after. Surprise has Light reflexively bucking his hips upwards, air slipping off his skin that longs for friction, and rage pierces through the haze of lust that’s clouding his view. They’re playing, he remembers then, he’s fine with fighting for control, he’s new to this.</p><p> </p><p>What he gets in return is something inside him. He feels like he’s being cracked open, raw and ugly, filled up with all the lies they share. It’s better than nothing, and better than being empty, and better than being an empty void.</p><p> </p><p>Forgetting.</p><p> </p><p>„Express yourself in any way you like“, Namikawa chides. Plastic crinkles when he rips the condom‘s package open, when he rips the room apart.</p><p> </p><p>„Stop doing that“, Light says.</p><p> </p><p>„Doing what?“</p><p> </p><p>„Stop being a bitch.“</p><p> </p><p>Namikawa laughs. „Sorry. Force of habit.“</p><p> </p><p>Humans are creatures of habit. They tend to give away what they‘re used to, and what they‘re not quite used to, which is why Light notices that Namikawa‘s usually the one to be fucked. He sees it in the way the other man aligns himself carefully, the way he hesitates for both their sake, the way his patience is faked with all the accuracy there is. It would‘ve been good enough for anyone else, but evil expects evil from others; those who pretend expect that others do too. It‘s relentless, somehow, and beautifully ironic—that they both can‘t breathe but still refuse to let their masks slip. It‘s part of the game. It‘s where masks belong. It‘s where liars belong.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Namikawa’s movements feel round and smooth and helpless inside him, coming to a halt whenever their mouths find each other. It‘s oddly intimate, two bodies adrift and close and closer together, sweat-slick in the places they touch. Skin slapping on skin, a bed that creaks every now and then, an otherwise empty hotel room. The room is cold, the heat is centered around them. It‘s impossible.</p><p> </p><p>Adrift, without direction, without reason. Light briefly wonders what he‘s doing here, whom he‘s defying, why there‘s no giving up, why the numbness comes and goes now. They‘re chasing something.</p><p> </p><p>„You‘re a thing“, he whispers against Namikawa’s lips, „you‘re such a pretty thing.“ <em>You’re the thing that fucks me, you’re the thing stuffing me just right, you’re a thing because there’s no human being that could bear my void.</em> It smells like orange, light and acidic, and that hint of alcohol is there, too, and it‘s hopeless because they‘re both things, pretty empty things that are dead and can‘t give anything to one another.</p><p> </p><p>They‘ve decided to try anyway.</p><p> </p><p>But things can be used, things exist to be used, so Light lets himself be a thing. He opens his mouth and doesn‘t care about the sounds that fall from it, his voice a broken violin, high and faraway and foreign. He lets himself splinter and shatter and molds himself around the cock inside him, he sculpts himself into something that‘s not aware, and there’s only sensation, and the burning pain he only now feels—he allows Namikawa to make him feel this pain, because Namikawa’s allowed to be desperate.</p><p> </p><p>Light concedes himself to fall, back arching off the bed in a curvature that meets his spiraling downwards, down with every thrust Namikawa delivers, down with the fact that he can do nothing but take and take, down with every breath that catches in his throat, down with every strand of black hair that comes undone, falls into his eyes, grazes his face; down, down. They‘re unforgivably close, and Light can‘t explain it, but he lifts his arms and buries his nails in Namikawa‘s back, warm muscles moving beneath, contracting at the intrusion. He pulls him closer still, holds tight, tries to kiss those burning lips before him numb.</p><p> </p><p>He feels everything.</p><p> </p><p>It‘s too loud to think. The richness of it all fills him up until he‘s choking.</p><p> </p><p>Namikawa swings his hips forward one last time like he‘s exhausted, like he doesn‘t care, and climaxes silently. Then he‘s collapsing on top of Light, panting, and takes a moment they‘re both in dire need of. It‘s wordless; all the words they could‘ve said have drowned in the covers.</p><p> </p><p>He retreats, shudders, discards of the condom. Light realizes he‘s still hard.</p><p> </p><p>Namikawa sits up. „Move over“, he says, voice hazy, eyes half-lidded. He looks beautiful like this, Light thinks, all disheveled hair and cooling sweat, perfectly ill-treated like the dead thing he is. He is. Light settles down between the other man‘s legs, feels him limp against his backside. He tips his head back when Namikawa wraps a hand around his length, rests it on the warm shoulder behind him; he moans when a thumb is pressed to the tip, long and loud, just to make a point. Just to pierce through the silence. The lights painting frayed shadows onto their bodies feel cheap, merciless.</p><p> </p><p>„Slut“, Namikawa whispers. Light turns his head and bites, teeth pressing into the sensitive skin of the neck-shoulder juncture until he tastes metal—if there’s pain, there might as well be marks, he decides. Namikawa squirms, never losing contact, hand never not moving up and down Light‘s cock, pace just right, just good. „I know“, Light pants out, „I‘m supposed to be that way.“ <em>I‘m sure you‘re aware.</em><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>His orgasm comes gentle and easy, wave following after wave, down, down, down. Sex is exhausting, he realizes, the emotional, forbidden half of it more than the fucking itself. There‘s two halves to everything. None of these is empty.</p><p> </p><p>Light gets up and walks over to the bathroom, sticky white slipping down his thigh. The floor is cold, firm. The water is an icy shock on his skin, and Light stands under the shower for a minute, staring, until whatever it is that has been turned raw and loose inside him is freezing again. It wakes him up.</p><p> </p><p>Namikawa joins him quietly. When he runs sleepy fingers through his hair, the scent of orange reaches through the water, which is warm, now.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>:::</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Light steps outside steamy glass doors, skin damp with the knowledge of what hands and fingers on this body can do. He feels tainted by it, but it might simply be like that. His clothes are retrieved easily.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>:::</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When he comes back, Namikawa is sitting in the bathtub; submerged in water, steam clinging to his hands, eyes pressed just a tad too close. It‘s a picture as peaceful as it‘s vulnerable. Light likes the idea of it.</p><p> </p><p>„Thank you“, he says.</p><p> </p><p>„Anytime.“</p><p> </p><p>There really is no time, and the calmness of Namikawa‘s voice gives him away. He might have guessed it, Light muses—he thinks of a slim notebook, of heavy pages. Sketchy characters. Fourty seconds.</p><p> </p><p>When he leaves, when the door of the hotel room falls shut behind him, the void is still there. It always was, overshadowed by sweet oblivion for half an hour stolen from someone else; now the emptiness has transitioned into something physical. <em>This mind carries a body,</em> it whispers.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you so much for reading! comments help me sleep at night and wake up in the morning!</p><p>@ ginoskanshikan on twitter</p></blockquote></div></div>
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